Lost for Words – John Humphrys

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There seems to be a bit of a red thread going on here, what with all these language-related books, and you might suspect I have been influenced by working at the department of language and communication studies. Which I have, I’m sure. You can’t just blame my employer, though, as we got John Humphrys’ Lost for Words: The Mangling and Manipulating of the English Language in a three for two sale (or something) while on our honeymoon this summer, and I hadn’t started the job then. You might blame my employer for the fact that I’ve just read the book, though, I suppose.

Anyway, Humphrys’ book is basically a collection of examples, or at least that’s what it feels like, with a little discussion around each one and with some conclusions drawn from the evidence. It’s hard to disagree with the conclusions. It’s also hard not to laugh at times, especially when Humphrys reminds me of why I had to quit reading feminist literary theory. It’s because feminists manage to write this sort of thing in good faith and expect us to take them seriously:

Is E= mc2 a sexed equation? Perhaps it is. Let us make the hypotheses that it is insofar as it priveleges the speed of light over other speeds that are vitally necessary to us. What seems to us the possibly sexed nature of the equation is not directly its uses by nuclear weapons, rather it is having priveleged what goes fastest.

(Luce Irigaray, apparently.*)

I can understand that women feel uncomfortable being termed a «chairman» or a «fireman» or any of the other «male» words that have been and are still current in our language(s). I just think that sometimes, perhaps, the so-called feminists go over the top a bit. And that quote is a keeper**, and even if Humphrys’ book did nothing else, providing me with that would still be worth the time and money.

But it does do more. It’s funny, frequently lol funny, and it’s intelligent. In short, it’s a good read.

A thought: I wonder if I ever split infinitives? Let me know if you spot any, will you?

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* Actually, one thing this book is missing – which is a major drawback – is proper references.

**The more I read it, the more the mind boggles. Especially at these «other speeds that are vitally necessary to us».

15 Things About Me and Books (Meme)

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Clearly a must. Via lots of people at Metaxu.

1. I can’t remember not being able to read, though I wasn’t that early a starter, so this clearly says more about my memory than my reading skills. My maternal grandmother taught me to read the year before I started school (so I would’ve been 6 years old) using one of those children’s blackboards with a clock (to teach the child how to tell the time, presumably) up top. I can remember the blackboard quite clearly, but not the lessons.

2. One of my favourite picture books as a kid was a book called «Serafin og hans makeløse mesterverk» (Serafin and his incomparable masterpiece) with illustrations by Philipe Fix. A few years ago I was attending some Spanish classes with my parents and one of our assignments was to bring a picture of our ideal place for a holiday – I brought this book and opened it to the picture showing Serafin and his friend Plym in their library reading out loud, where all the characters from the various books have emerged and sit around listening to the story. My father’s comment was «That explains a lot.»

3. I’ve mentioned this before, but I reread books. Any book I really like I’ll reread, most more than once. I sometimes suspect this is mostly because my memory leaks like a sieve, and hence I need to reread in order to remember anything at all. However, I also reread books I know almost by heart, so that is not the full explanation.

4. The book I’ve read the most times is Rosemary Sutcliff’s The Chronicles of Robin Hood. I’ve been through it more than 20 times, certainly, possibly a lot more, and I’m definitely not done with it yet. The copy I used to read is the Bokklubbens barn edition in Norwegian, it was one of the books I brought with me to the Gambia when we went there in 1986 and it also came with me to the UK when I moved there in 1997. I now also own the first edition in English and a later imprint of the same. Hence, when I read it now, I read the imprint. Close on Sutcliff’s heels come C.S. Lewis (The Chronicles of Narnia) and Jane Austen (Pride & Prejudice, especially if you also count the times I’ve listened to the audiobook). If you count the number of pages, Patrick O’Brian probably wins – as I’ve read the entire Aubrey/Maturin series four times now.

5. I love not only the content of (good) books, but also the physical object. I buy books. Lots of them.

6. I like first editions, though I’m not entirely sure why.

7. Except for newly published books (where I try to get hold of a first issue), I prefer to buy books second hand. I like the way a book that’s already been read feels. Other people’s scribbles in the margins delight me more often than they annoy. Other people’s bookplates or dedications like «To Ann with love, Christmas 1982. Auntie Val» give me a thrill quite out of proportion to their factual interest or relevance to the book.

8. If a book is really good, I have a hard time trying to prevent myself buying more copies of the same book. At some point in Sense & Sensibility Edward says of Marianne (in the event that she should come into a fortune):

I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott — she would buy them all over and over again; she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands

I think it sums up Marianne pretty well, but though I normally identify more with Elinor, it also to some extent sums up my feelings towards my favourite books. Though with me it’s not so much a question of preventing them falling into unworthy hands – though that comes into it, certainly – as a very unreasonable feeling that having more than one copy of a book will extend the pleasure somehow. Can you tell I like the cut scenes part of DVD extras the best?

9. I seem to have most of my knowledge of the world and of history from fiction. I hardly ever read newspapers or watch the news and I have only recently (as in: in the last few years) started reading non-fiction to any serious degree (apart from school-books, obviously, but I didn’t exactly read those conscientously from cover to cover). I don’t normally perceive this as a problem myself.

10. Partly due to 9. I get annoyed when writers of (historical) fiction think that there is no need to check the facts just because they happen to be writing fiction (a note in the foreword is fine, just let me know, somehow, that you happened to move a whole continent or postpone the French revolution by 50 years).

11. It worries me majorly when people pronounce with bravado that they don’t read books. In fact, it worries me more than most other statements people pronounce with bravado except those that involve hurting or killing other beings (i.e. I’d be somewhat more worried if someone came in with a gun and said – with bravado or without – «I’m going to kill you all»).

12. The burning of books – even just as a «special effect» or illustration on film or tv – makes me feel physically ill.

13. I find some books more interesting in their idea than in their actual storyline. For example, I have yet to finish Franz Kafka’s The Trial (I’ve read the first half twice), despite having it as a set text for two different exams, but I’ve had many wonderful discussions about it nevertheless.

14. My parents used to read to me every night when I was a kid, my father especially. Sometimes he would be so caught up in the story that he forgot to read out loud and I’d have to prod him. After I learnt to read myself, however, I’d just continue where he left off. After a while, I also found that I could get to the end of the page quicker (tempting, if the story was an exciting one) by shutting out his voice and reading to myself instead. I think the point when he decided there was no longer any point in reading to me was when I’d done precicely that and asked him to turn the page so I could continue when he was still only half-way through.

15. The first book I can remember paying for with my own money was a selection of stories from the arabian nights. It was on sale and cost all of 20 kr (appr. USD 2.50 at today’s exchange rate), I think. It seemed like a lot of money at the time, though.

Wedding Season (Bryllupsfeber) – Darcy Cosper

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In which we follow through on a whim

In what can only be classified as a moment of pure madness, I picked up Darcy Cosper’s Wedding Season in the Norwegian translation – Bryllupsfeber – at the local supermarket. There are several reasons why «madness» is the correct classification. Firstly, I don’t read English books translated into Norwegian (comic books excluded, though I prefer the original there, too). This has to be the first time I’ve contemplated doing so for well over 10 years. Secondly, I no longer read chick-lit. There is no good reason for this, it just doesn’t appeal to me anymore.

However, for a few mad seconds it obviously seemed like a good idea. And having spent the money, I thought I might as well spend the time, and read it in order to get rid of the book again.

It’s pretty much what you’d expect. It had a somewhat surprising ending, though not the «surprise ending» I started fearing half-way through, which cheered me up. I had my moments of trying to translate the Norwegian back to English to figure out what the author could possibly have meant – as expected – but not so many as to make it tedious. I enjoyed the friendly banter of Joy and her circle of friends, I thought Cosper did a pretty good job at capturing that common history/common language thing that people who know each other well develop.

And it reminded me how excessively annoying it can be when people try to push their views on how to best live your life on you. I try to avoid doing so myself, but I’m sure I forget occasionally, and even occasionally is too often.

The Crocodile on the Sandbank

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I was quite happy to get hold of this from a fellow bookcrosser, as Peters’ books sounded rather intriguing. The Crocodile on the Sandbank is the first (as far as I can ascertain) book in which Amelia Peabody – «the female Indiana Jones» – makes her appearance. The book suffers from this to a certain extent, as a large part of it is occupied by Amelia’s explanations of her life so far and of what has put her in the position to travel to Egypt in the first place. Neccessary, perhaps, but I felt it was a bit heavy-handed, to be honest. Too much tell, not enough show.

The pace picks up a bit further in, though, and unfolds itself as a pretty well-spun yarn. Amelia is a likeable creature, though a bit of a cliché, in fact all the characters are chlichéd, but to a certain extent that is what the genre dictates. I can’t quite make up my mind if the plot and characters are too predictable and hence boring and a waste of time or delightfully predictable and therefore to be savoured in the way a Bond movie is savoured. The jury is still out.

Not a book to make a lasting impression therefore, but if I come across more Peabody mysteries I will most likely read them before passing them on.

(This copy’s bookcrossing journal.)

English Journey

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This book is a tie-in to a BBC programme made to «celebrate» the 50th anniversary of J.B. Priestly’s English Journey. Bainbridge’s version is sub-titled «Being a rambling but truthful account of what one person saw and heard and felt and felt during a journey through England», which I suspect is also a «rip-off» of Priestly. I found my copy – a first edition in dust jacket – in a shop in Wigtown, for the princely sum of £2. It has the inscription «FROM BERYL», to which the shop-owner has noted, in pencil, «(probably not the author)», and I tend to agree. Still, it was a good buy.

The account is certainly rambling. Bainbridge uses a language that is very reminicent of a diary, especially in leaving out the subject in many sentences (as in «Went to Milton Keynes» rather than «I went…» or «We went»). It might not suit everyone, but I like it. It is also, in many ways, a sort of summing up of all the things that are not wonderful or terrible about England, but that are not ordinary either. For an anglophile like me it’s a lovely read, though I must admit it’s made me rather «homesick».

And I like her conclusion, such as it is.

I suppose I’ll have to get hold of Priestly, now (though not on ABE just now – they only have one copy listed, and it’s at 50 dollars, which seems unecessarily steep for a whim – you can find lots of Bainbridges, though, if you don’t happen to have one already).

Used & Rare, Slightly Chipped and Warmly Inscribed

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And when you’ve read 84 Charing Cross Road, what is more natural than to polish off Used and Rare, Slightly Chipped and Warmly Inscribed in quick succession?

I see from the archives that I must have neglected to record my first reading of Warmly Inscribed, which is annoying, but most of what I said for the first two hold true for this one as well – the difference, if there is one, is that larger sections of the book are dedicated to single «stories», such as that of the New England forger of the sub-title. This is in no way a bad thing, and like the two first, Warmly Inscribed is a bit of a must-read for any bibliophile.

84 Charing Cross Road

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In which we sigh gratefully

Having read somewhat too much of a book I really didn’t want to read just now, I picked 84 Charing Cross Road out of a pile which is intended for RABCKs (I have another copy, obviously, but this one was at hand) to indulge myself. Oh, what a lovely feeling. This book of course, a must for any bibliophile. It is probably also a must for any anglophile, though I have a hard time imagining an anglophile who is not also a bibliophile, and so it is a bit difficult to say.

Amazon.co.uk somehow managed to offer me Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn as the «Perfect Partner» for Hanff (if you buy both, you get a discount). Can someone please explain to me how that happened? Is it simply because Miller is tagged as a «classic» and any classic goes with Hanff? Because, quite frankly, I fail to see the connection otherwise. If you really wanted a perfect partner for Hanff, how about this one? The ideal match, of course, would be any of Q’s lectures, but the best amazon can do is this, which he edited.

But Miller? Honestly!

A Game of Thrones – George R.R. Martin

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In which we cheat a bit

I’ve only read about 140 pages of A Game of Thrones, actually, at which point I wasn’t hooked, just mildly interested, which is not entirely complimentary to Martin, but I suspect it’s partly because I really wasn’t in the mood for fantasy just now. I started it despite the fact that I knew it was the wrong sort of book right now, because I got this book in a bookcrossing bookring, and felt that A. I had to give it a try and B. I needed to get it done with sooner rather than later as the point of a bookring is that several people want to read the book. However, I was quite definitely not feeling like continuing past page 140, and so thought I’d better send it on and rather request it back at some point.

However, I then went on the net and discovered that this is the first of a series where the two latest titles are not even published yet. And we all know all my patience (which isn’t a big heap to start with) is currently preoccupied preventing my head exploding because of the wait for the next (and, mercifully, last) Harry Potter novel. So starting a series that I can’t finish immediately is Not a Good Idea. So I think I’ll try to get hold of some of Martin’s independent novels instead and leave A Song of Ice and Fire as «noted» and check back in 20 years or so to see if the series is complete then.

(This copy’s bookcrossing journal)

Broken English Spoken Perfectly

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A collection of examples of that which we know as Engrish, but with a mostly Scandinavian origin. My favourite was from «A hotel in Vienna» and literally made me laugh til I cried:

In case of fire, do your utmost to alarm the hotel porter.

(I couldn’t help imagining a porter with a particular affinity for horror movies, who would naturally be more difficult than the average person to «alarm».)

All in all: Funny.